


falling apart again

by fluffysfics



Series: rewriting history [2]
Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Angst, Canon Divergent, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, but he’s also slightly too good, the Master is bad at being human
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-19
Updated: 2020-12-19
Packaged: 2021-03-11 01:55:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,083
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28177245
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fluffysfics/pseuds/fluffysfics
Summary: The more time the Master spends travelling with the Doctor and her friends, the more confusing everything gets. He knows that soon, he’ll have to make a decision- make himself human, or come clean to her. But that’s not going to be easy.
Relationships: Thirteenth Doctor/The Master (Dhawan)
Series: rewriting history [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2064198
Comments: 8
Kudos: 82





	falling apart again

**Author's Note:**

> I was absolutely blown away by the response to the last fic in this series, thank you all SO much for encouraging me to continue! I have a lot of ideas, so I’m definitely going to try and squeeze a proper story arc out of this!

It is Yaz who notices first that he’s acting differently. 

She touches him on the arm one day when they’ve just got back from a rather harrowing adventure on the burned-out, radioactive wasteland of Earth’s period as an orphan planet, and she jerks her head to one side in that police-y sort of way that’s very hard to say no to. Even for the Master. So he gets up from where he’s been leaning against the console, idly watching the Doctor, and he follows Yaz to a hidden-ish corner near one of the great glowing orange pillars. 

“Something up, O? You’ve been quiet lately.” 

She folds her arms, fixing him with a piercing gaze. In the soft orange light, she looks a little ethereal, rather beautiful, for a human. He suddenly feels a little bad for his cruel thoughts about her the other day, and he has to keep a look of disgust off of his face. He doesn’t _do_ feeling bad about things like that. Except, apparently, he does now. 

“I’m fine, Yaz,” he assures her. She looks unconvinced. O would be squirming under her gaze, so the Master forces a blush, picking at a fingernail and trying to avoid her eyes. “Really. I am.” 

“You’re so _not_. Whenever you think we’re not looking, you go all broody. And then there’s the Doctor- the two of youse keep lookin’ at each other like you’ve got a secret. What’s up?” 

Oh, they certainly have a secret. The Master closes his eyes for just a moment, and he remembers two nights ago- dim lights, the Doctor on top of him, hands sliding under his shirt, lips and tongue and _teeth_ roaming across more places than he could count. 

He could break Yaz’s heart if he told her that. But he’d already had the ‘I’m flattered but I don’t like you in that way’ chat with her the other day, and so he really _shouldn’t_ \- oh, he’s not used to having a conscience. 

“I’m just- just not very used to living on a time machine,” he says quietly. “It’s weird. It’s a lot to adjust to. I...the Doctor’s been talking to me sometimes. Helping me through everything. I didn’t really want her to mention it to the rest of you, it’s...embarrassing.” He stares at his shoes, which are beige. He hates beige. 

“Oh,” Yaz says, looking mildly disappointed that she hadn’t uncovered a conspiracy. “Well- it gets easier, the time travel. Least you’re with people who’ve been doin’ it for a while. Me and the lads- we got thrown right in at the deep end.” 

“I heard. From the Doctor.” The Master smiles a little, and the expression is more genuine than he wants it to be. “When we used to text, she’d tell me about what you lot got up to.” 

“You texted a lot?” The look on Yaz’s face is calculating, curious. There’s a big brain in there, ticking away, figuring out the best way to get at what she wants. 

“Mhm. Every day, pretty much.” 

“So...you know a lot of stuff about her, right? ‘Coz she clams right up whenever we try and ask her about her past. But you knew her before we did. And she was...she was other people?” 

“She was,” the Master says softly. “But that’s for her to talk about. Not me.” Here, he will be unapologetically selfish. He likes being the one with all of the knowledge. And he likes that the Doctor trusts him. Sharing details about her past might chip away at that trust, and he can’t allow that. 

Never mind the fact that he’s lying to her with every second of his existence here on her TARDIS. 

Yaz gives him a hard stare, then turns and stalks off back towards Ryan when he seems unaffected. The Master tips his head back against the pillar, gazing up at himself reflected a hundred times in the dull silver hexagons around him. 

He doesn’t look like himself. He’s wearing jeans, for one thing, and a light brown flannel shirt over a purple t-shirt. He misses suits, and clashing colours, and his TCE, and he misses his beard. 

But at the same time, he’s grown awfully used to being O. The right reactions are getting easier and easier to fake, and sometimes he even catches himself pulling off O’s twitchy mannerisms when he’s alone in his bedroom. 

“Okay, fam,” the Doctor calls. “C’mere, all of you. We’re goin’ to this fun planet- the whole thing’s like a really big swimming pool, but it’s not water- you never actually get wet, so you can jump in with your clothes on. It’s actually...”

She keeps talking, but the Master mostly stops listening. He needs to quiet his thoughts for now, and another adventure or five will do that very nicely. 

——

He keeps his head relatively worry-free until that night, when he finds himself lying awake in bed. This happens a lot. He doesn’t need sleep like the humans do. He just has to _pretend_ like he does. 

The TARDIS has stopped bothering him quite so much when he’s alone. They’ve come to some sort of an uneasy truce- the Doctor is happier than she’s ever been, and the Master genuinely doesn’t want to hurt her. He misses being himself, but being _hers_ is delightful. 

But the TARDIS definitely doesn’t _approve_. She’s given up on trying to get him to leave. But she wants him to come clean, the Master is all too aware of that. She keeps taunting him, putting copies of his favourite outfit at the front of his wardrobe, so that he has to push past it to get to O’s clothes. 

And then, sometimes, late at night when he’s trying to sleep, he will hear the chameleon arch slide very slowly forwards and thunk against the front of the drawer that he’d put it in a week or so ago. He can never be allowed to forget that it is there. 

Tonight, though, there is just silence. 

It’s dark and oppressive, the sort of silence that feels like a magnet for unpleasant thoughts. The Master can’t help but think about how much easier things would be if he were one of the Doctor’s sweet little humans. 

It’s a testament to his telepathic skills that he has managed to appear human for so long. Masking the Time Lord part of his brain is one thing, but hiding the beating of his second heart is exhausting. 

When the Doctor had last found herself in his bedroom, she had pressed her hands over his chest, one right over each of his hearts, and she had held them there. Just watching him. He had stared up at her, his hearts pounding louder and faster than they had in centuries, and he had fought and fought against the temptation to let his focus slip. Let her feel who he was. 

He hadn’t, of course. He’d been too vulnerable, too exposed. The Master reaches up and curls his fingers into his hair, pulling hard. Not thinking about it is impossible. Every time he closes his eyes, he can feel the Doctor’s touch against his bare skin. He can feel how slowly, how carefully she had taken him apart, laid bare every piece of him and then put him back together. And yet, she still doesn’t know who he is. Without her at his side, every second feels like falling apart again. 

There’s a soft knock at his door. 

It doesn’t sound like the Doctor. Surprised, the Master sits up, glancing at the thin strip of light seeping in below his bedroom door. Two feet- standing still, not tapping or pacing or leaning against the doorframe. Graham. 

“Come in,” he says quietly. The light flickers on automatically as the door swings soundlessly open, and Graham walks into his room. He’s wielding two cups of tea. Out of the Doctor’s current lot of strays, he probably cooks the best, so the tea is likely safe. 

The Master runs a hand through his hair to smooth it down, and then crawls to the edge of his bed to snag a chair and pull it close enough for Graham to sit in. He does so, and he hands the Master a mug of tea. For a moment, they watch each other. Then-

“You doing alright, son?” There’s concern in Graham’s voice, the same gentle tone that he’s heard directed at plenty of upset humans before. 

“Yeah,” the Master says, and dips his head to sip at his tea. It _is_ good. For what it is, at least. He still prefers coffee. “Mostly, at least.” 

Graham nods thoughtfully. “Yeah. Mostly? What’s that little bit left over, ‘cause you see- this is going to sound weird, but the TARDIS told me to come see you. Woke me up, she did.” 

“ _She_ woke you? For _me_?” The incredulity is perfectly real. “I’m- I’m so sorry.” The stammering apology is decidedly _not_. 

“No, no, it’s alright. Perfectly alright. I reckon you needed a cup of tea. Have you looked in a mirror lately?” 

Come to think of it, he hasn’t. The Master takes another slow sip of tea, and glances over to the small personal mirror on his bedside table. 

The dark circles under his eyes are considerably more pronounced than usual. There’s a straggly shadow of a beard on his face, and his hair is a mess despite his attempts to tame it. He looks terrible. 

“Oh,” he says weakly. 

“That’s your name,” Graham says with a soft chuckle. The Master has to respect the pun, and he manages a small smile. “Look- I talked to Yaz, too. She said you were struggling a bit with adjusting to life here. I know what that’s like. We all do. Big adjustment, the whole time travel thing. I think it’s all mad. Sometimes, I think I’m going to wake up any second, and this’ll all have been a dream.” He leans back in his chair, and something flits across his face for just a second. The Master instantly recognises _longing_. 

“Grace,” he says softly. “You’d have her, still, if this were a dream. Right?” 

Graham meets his eyes, looking a little surprised, and then nods slowly. “The Doc told you a lot about us, has she?” 

“Oh- sorry,” the Master says, the apology slipping out on instinct at this point. O apologises if anyone even looks at him sideways. “Not- nothing too personal, I don’t think. Just the...the major events. When we used to text, she’d tell me about all your adventures.” 

“Ahh.” Graham sets his teacup down, folding his hands in his lap. “Do you have parents, son? Or a girlfriend? Best friend? The best way to adjust to all of this life, I think, is to take a break. Ask the Doc to take you home for a day. Talk to some real people.” 

The Master bites his lip, and hastily composes himself a tragic backstory. He hadn’t been expecting to need one, so he hadn’t put much thought into it before today. 

“My parents don’t really want to see me,” he says softly, gazing determinedly into his teacup. “I can’t tell them about my job, ‘cause it’s all top secret. And then there’s the bisexuality. I don’t think they’ll be happy with me until I come home with a nice normal steady girlfriend and a PhD, and that’s not gonna happen.” 

Graham is quiet for several long seconds, taking a slow drink from his mug of tea. As the Master looks up, there is genuine compassion in the human’s eyes- it hits something deep in his chest, and he has to swallow a lump in his throat. How long has it been, since someone looked at him like that? 

“I’m sorry to hear that, son,” he says eventually. “Sometimes family’s a lot harder than it should be. But you’ve got us, now. Hope you know that. You’re always welcome round mine and Ryan’s for tea. Yaz would say the same, I know she would. Good lass.” 

“Yeah,” the Master murmurs. “Thank you.” He’s surprised at how genuine those words feel. He hides his face in his teacup, drinking slowly until it’s all gone. The hot liquid sloshes in his stomach, achieving very little except making him feel slightly sick. 

“Any time.” Graham leans over, pats him warmly on the knee. “I reckon I should leave you to sleep. Knowing the Doc, she’ll have us all up early chasing some thingy-doodah from the planet Zog.” 

Zog is actually a rather boring planet, the Master reflects. Mostly a lot of trees, although the trees were at least purple. He could respect that. 

He smiles at Graham, and nods, doing his best to look slightly cheered by the conversation. Graham gives him another leg pat, and then stands up to leave, putting the chair back where it had come from. 

“Goodnight, son,” he said softly. There’s a new inflection to the way he says _son_ , like...oh. Like he actually means it. 

The Master sets down his empty mug, and rubs his hands across his face. This is all getting a little too much for one night. 

He slips out of bed, mind reeling as he pushes open the doors, throws himself upon the mercy of the TARDIS corridors. The first door he opens leads to an elaborately set up chameleon arch, which does not help his headache. 

These humans like him. They _care_ about him nearly as much as the Doctor does. He doesn’t like them back. 

No, that’s not right. He _shouldn’t_ like them back. 

Shaking his head, he pleads with the TARDIS to just take him where he wants to go, throwing all of his frenzied thoughts at her so that once, just once, she’ll _see_ what it’s like to be properly inside of his mind. 

Hardly even looking where he’s going, the Master walks straight through the open doorway of the Doctor’s bedroom and steps on a pile of scrap metal. 

He yelps, stumbling back into a wall and clutching his foot. The Doctor shoots upright in bed- she grabs her sonic, waving it madly around the room before she realises what’s going on. 

“O?” She frowns. “Companions aren’t allowed in...oh, never mind. You okay?” 

“Your floor’s covered in stuff,” he accuses, still propped up against the wall. His foot _hurts_. 

“Sorry,” the Doctor says sheepishly. She glances around, and flips a switch, illuminating a small string of lights that mark a clear path through the junk on her floor. “Um. What are you doing here?” 

“I couldn’t sleep.” That wasn’t a lie, at least. 

The Doctor squints at him in the half-darkness. “You look terrible.” 

“So I’ve been told,” the Master says. His foot stops throbbing enough to walk on, and so he carefully follows the illuminated path through the junk-filled floor. He hovers the the edge of the Doctor’s bed. She hesitates for a moment, then pulls back the covers and pats the spot next to her. He sits down. 

Almost immediately, the Doctor takes his arm and pulls him down even more, until his head’s on the pillow and he’s lying so, _so_ close to her. The whole bed is warm, and it smells like her, and the Master can’t tell if this is making his problems worse or easing them all away to nothing. 

“O. C’mon, what’s on your mind?” There’s genuine softness and concern in the Doctor’s voice. Not for the first time, the Master is struck by how different this is from the way in which she speaks to her other companions. Her gentleness seems to be only for him. 

“Everything’s just...just a lot,” he says softly, gazing up at the Doctor. “Time travel. Hearing about it over text is one thing, but actually doing it...it’s a bit overwhelming.” 

Her face crumples. Then it un-crumples, as she tries to hide her feelings. “D’you want me to take you home?” 

Immediately, the Master’s eyes widen and he shakes his head- an urgent, insistent _no_. It takes another couple of seconds before he realises that he didn’t have to fake that even slightly, and something stings in his chest. He bites his lip, and focuses on talking so that he doesn’t have to think too hard about the implications there. 

“No. No, definitely not! Doctor, you’ve- this is- you’re amazing. I love this. I lo- you’re great. Everything about this is...it’s more than I could ever have dreamed of. It’s just a lot. But I’ll adjust. I promise. I just...I just need a bit more time to be all...pathetic.” 

“You’re not pathetic.” The Doctor wraps her arms around him immediately, tightly, and her relief is rolling off of her in waves. “You’re doin’ great. And hey, you’ve got me to talk to when you need it. And the others,” she adds as an afterthought. 

The Master takes a slow, deep breath, and then looks up at her, slowly wrapping an arm around her as well. “Can I sleep here tonight?” 

The Doctor tucks her fingers underneath his chin, lifting his head to kiss him. It’s so gentle; he remembers a kiss in a graveyard, when he’d been similarly vulnerable, and how soft the Doctor had been with him then. He remembers other times, a speech before an impossible battle. _Stand with me. It’s all I’ve ever wanted_. 

“Of course you can sleep here, O,” the Doctor murmurs, relaxing her grip on him and letting him curl into a comfortable sleeping position against her. 

The Master wonders if Missy would be proud of him. In a way, he is standing with the Doctor. He’s never been closer to her. 

But he pictures his last self, umbrella at her waist and hands on her hips, and a lump rises in his throat. She’d think he was a coward. He’s living in a limbo, without the courage to fully commit to anything. He can’t make himself human; he can’t live properly as a Time Lord. He can’t keep this up forever. 

The Doctor runs her fingers through his hair, and the Master curls a little closer against her. He’ll sleep here tonight, and in the morning, perhaps he’ll be thinking a little more rationally. It’s unlikely, but he can always hope. 

_Hope_. When did he start hoping? Is that him, or is it O?

The Master isn’t even sure that there’s much of a difference anymore. 

**Author's Note:**

> hope you enjoyed! comments and kudos are very very much appreciated, thank you so much again for encouraging me to keep writing this <3


End file.
